


the next time we meet, a new kind of hello (1/1)

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-11
Updated: 2010-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne





	the next time we meet, a new kind of hello (1/1)

_**the next time we meet, a new kind of hello (1/1)**_  
 **title** : the next time we meet, a new kind of hello  
 **rating** : r-ish  
 **pairing** : eames/arthur  
 **spoilers** : none glaring, though there are references  
 **disclaimer** : all hail nolan, dreamer extraordinaire.  
 **writer's note** : 823 words of introspective and impressionistic porn.  
 **summary** : Arthur and Eames keep track of each other.

He knows Eames is there the minute he turns the lock. He can feel it—like the light has somehow been altered, like the composition of air to dust motes has suddenly changed.

It doesn't really surprise him, either. He's kept tabs on Eames since the Pendleton job, since the white sheets of an expensive hotel room, buttons missing from his favorite shirt and mismatched cufflinks left behind. It's how he knew Eames was in Mombasa, and Morocco, and Madrid, places full of spice and heat and color, their names all beginning with the _mm_ sound, warm and wet like a kiss. Places he knew Arthur would hate, too many people, too much discomfort, crowding and sweating for very little reason at all. To be fair, Arthur didn't actually hate Madrid, not really, as he could get away with wearing linen there, cream-colored and finely spun. But everywhere else, yes. Further than Arthur would touch with a ten foot pole, though he knew Eames was there all the same.

But now they're both high on an impossible job's end, barring the highly unlikely revelation that Fischer is keeping his father's company intact after all, and Eames has always been the type for raucous celebration. Why he hasn't already hired strippers, Arthur doesn't know. It wouldn't be all that surprising.

Eames rarely is, though Arthur knows he would like to be.

Sure enough: a "hello, darling," from the study, the clink of ice cubes in a glass, the smell of foreign cologne.

"Hello, Jack," Arthur replies.

"Oh, back to first names, are we?" Eames' figure appears in the study doorway, cutting a shadow in the light spilling forth.

"It seemed appropriate, given that you appear to be my guest."

"And what was I on the job?"

A distraction, Arthur wants to say. "Unwelcome," he says instead.

"But necessary," Eames counters. Arthur just inclines his head, hyper-aware of Eames' proximity. "And now? Am I welcome now?"

"Don't ask stupid questions."

And he's reaching for Eames as he says it, ignoring the crash of one of his nicest tumblers on hardwood floor, ignoring the muffled exclamation of surprise from Eames' mouth, swallowing it into his own. He's fairly certain the sound was intended to be ironic, anyway, stupid Brit.

He has the sense Eames knows what he was just thinking, from the growl erupting low in a stubbled throat. Arthur takes the hint and pulls Eames into the hall, the soles of their shoes grinding on the glass. He's tired of the banter—he would just like to get laid, please, if that's all right.

"Fine by me, then," Eames replies, and Arthur realizes he spoke out loud. He makes a noise that might be 'follow me' and might be 'fuck me,' and backs his way into the bedroom, where Eames proceeds to lift him bodily and throw him on to the taupe duvet.

"At least it's not my favorite, this time," Arthur says when Eames rips his shirt.

It was like this before—the rough-and-tumble edge, the room too big, the bed not big enough. Eames lays him out, splays him open, spread-eagled and panting, questing hands searching for every sensitive spot remembered from the Pendleton affair. Jack Eames, after all, is anything if not attentive to detail. And Arthur just rides it, rides the kick, the wave between waking and weightlessness, until he neither knows the shape of reality, nor does he care. With Eames, the edges are always blurred.

No wonder he missed something with Fischer.

He doesn't want to think about that anymore. There's too much to focus on—the taste of Eames' left bicep, for instance, where a Knave of Hearts sits winking cheekily—or the callous on Eames' trigger finger, which is currently stroking the absolute softest place on Arthur's entire body, the friction utterly sinful. This is all he wants, he thinks fuzzily. This is the place where Eames' spice, and heat, and color are all welcome. Here on Arthur's Egyptian cotton sheets, in his orderly apartment, there is a place where Eames fits.

Of course, Arthur will never tell him so.

When this is over, when Eames has decided it's time to move on and Arthur has decided not to ask him to stay, Arthur will wear mismatched cufflinks for a week and Cobb won't notice. He'll book a ticket to Paris, rescue Ariadne from classes she's only taking to be contrary, travel and dream with her for months. He'll keep track of Eames on the side, bail him out of trouble once or twice, never close enough to touch—not until he and Ariadne meet him together, and they let her think a hotel room is her idea. He will get her to leave before Jack wakes. He will do all of these things, when this is over.

"Darling," Eames whispers, lips brushing Arthur's skin. "You say that assuming that this will ever _end_."

Arthur sees stars.  



End file.
